


Gifts of the Old Gods

by nchardak



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire Fusion, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:10:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19286914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nchardak/pseuds/nchardak
Summary: Maester Connor left Oldtown on a near-impossible mission: find his missing brother, lost somewhere in Westeros. Having spent his youth and adult years cloistered in the Citadel, the wide world is overwhelming and unpredictable, despite all his training. As luck would have it, however, there's a gruff bear of a hedge knight to be met along the road who might be just what he needs.--Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones setting with D:BH characters. Knowledge of ASOIAF/GOT probably helpful, but not completely necessary.





	Gifts of the Old Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Me: had major depressive episode leading me to abandon an unfinished DBH fic like 9 months ago. 
> 
> Also me: “hey you should do a DBH/ASOIAF fusion, you useless gremlin.”
> 
> The Game of Thrones zeitgeist is thankfully trickling to an end but here’s an AU of it with DBH characters anyway. 
> 
> It’s more heavily based on the novels because those take precedence in my brain in terms of What’s Canon, but you shouldn’t need to have read them or even be more than passingly familiar with the show to understand what’s going on here. 
> 
> Some background context if you’re into that: this takes place during the reign of Jaehaerys II Targaryen, Dany’s grandfather, who I believe was cut out of show-lore for clarity reasons. It’s some nebulous time before the Tragedy at Summerhall (where/when Rhaegar was born and most of the Targs died) and after the War of the Ninepenny Kings, something the average fan may only be aware of as a thing Barristan Selmy fought in, or from the Broken Man monologue Septon Maribald gives, which was a great piece of writing and honestly look it up online if you haven’t read the books. 
> 
> As of now, I don’t anticipate any major characters from the books/show or even background lore to show up in this beyond passing references. If you have questions or want clarifications just drop in a comment or check out the wiki of ice and fire if you don’t feel like talking. 
> 
> I’m @mehidek on twitter where I’ve been mostly lurking TJ for several months now, so you can say hi if you want.

There were three of them. 

Connor was good with a sword; very good. He’d earned his steel link first, after all, only a few months into his time at the Citadel. His sword was plain but well-made, Citadel-forged. 

But there were three of them. 

Westerlanders, Connor surmised by their accents. What they were doing on a side road in the middle of the Riverlands was less clear. They were obviously highwaymen; no livery, dressed in ragged clothes and rusted chainmail, dirty faces and dirtier hands, leering at Connor in a way that suggested they weren’t just after his horse, armor and coin purse. 

“We can do this easy,” said the one who appeared to be their leader, a short, broad man with a tangled red-brown beard, “or we can do it rough. Your choice.”

Connor had had his sword out the moment he’d heard them singing their bawdy song down the road, and he now tightened his grip, keeping his face blank, studying the three just like Archmaester Elijah had taught him. 

The one who’d spoken had clearly been a soldier at some point. He was about forty years old and held himself lazily, but had a soldier’s mien. Another, about the same age, had ragged blond hair hanging in his face, and favored his left leg. The third was a bald youth who held his sword like it was a stick, but he was big and ugly with a scar running diagonal across his face. 

Everything Connor owned was contained either on his person or in the rucksack that rested across his dwindling campfire. Too far to reach for and grab to try and run for Star, tethered to a nearby tree, before one of them struck. 

“I’m a Maester chained by the Citadel,” Connor’s voice was stronger than he felt, “it is unlawful by order of the King to harm me as I go about the business of the realm.”

The blond looked around exaggeratedly, “shit, is the King here? I ain’t ever seen a King before. Didn’t know they came down from their pretty towers to save scrawny boys on the road.”

“They don’t,” laughed the bearded man, “and we’re leagues away from anywhere, and I don’t even know where the gods damned Citadel is. Nobody around to give a shit if some boy with a fancy chain dies screaming.”

Connor moved into the proper swordsman’s stance, heart pounding. He’d rush the leader first and hope to get the element of surprise, then go for the blond’s left leg, and leave the youth for last. And hope none of them were smart enough to flank him. And pray. 

“All you fuckers stop your yapping!” came a loud growl from down near the road. Despite his training, Connor’s eyes flicked away from his opponents long enough to see a very large older man atop a massive horse. The man had an arrow pointed in their general direction. All three of Connor’s attackers turned to look.

Blond confronted him, “this ain’t your business, old man. Be on your way afore we decide we like the look of your horse and armor too.”

The stranger barked out a laugh, “I’d like to see you try, scum.”

“You!,” said Red-Beard, stepping closer to the newcomer “I know you. You fought for Ser Jeffrey in the war, didn’t you!” Connor’s heart sank.

“That I did,” the stranger didn’t lower his bow, “can’t say I remember your face.”

“Aye, you wouldn’t,” Red-beard grinned, “I was serving under Ser Jason, and then Lord Rayne after him. But I remember you bawling over your dead squire at Redgrass well enough.”

That was the last thing he said as an arrow shaft buried itself in his throat. 

Connor reacted immediately, taking advantage of the chaos to execute a stop-thrust through the blond’s neck, who gurgled blood and his last breath as the sword withdrew. The bald youth dropped his own sword and held his hands up in supplication, looking from Connor to the newcomer, who’d nocked another arrow, in terror. 

“Get the fuck out of here, you little shit,” the man said, and the youth did, scrambling for purchase on the muddy road. 

The two watched him until he disappeared into the trees, and then they turned to look at each other. Connor studied the man for the first time. He wasn’t as old as his gray hair and beard would make it seem at first glance; perhaps fifty. He was, indeed, large, even when compared to his larger-than-average roan stallion. He’d put his unshot arrow back in its quiver and slung the bow around his back next to it, but rested one hand on the axe at his hip as he regarded Connor, who still held his own sword, dripping with blood. 

After a moment, the man heaved out a deep breath and looked at the sky before dismounting. He led his horse over to where Star grazed blissfully and tied him to the same tree, pulling off a saddlebag and rummaging for a wineskin to take a deep draught. 

Wiping his mouth, he looked at Connor again, waving the wineskin at the drawn sword, “you can put that away, you know. If I wanted to rob you, I’d have already shot you.” 

Connor didn’t move, “who are you?”

The stranger shook his head and took another drink, moving toward the fire, where he crouched down and warmed his hands, “call me Hank.”

“Why did you help me? You endangered yourself for a stranger.”

“Gods, boy. You ever not look a gift horse in the mouth? Clean that blood off your fancy sword before it dries and ruins the metal.”

Connor frowned, but went to his pack to find the rag he used to clean his sword, keeping the man in his sight. 

Hank took another drink, watching him, “can I know your name, or do I just get to call you “Maester?”

“How did you know…?”

“That you’re a Maester?” Hank snorted, “I heard you talk to those brigands. You didn’t think I’d help any fool on the road, do you?”

“You...you helped me because I’m a Maester?”

“No, idiot. I helped you because I wanted to. I just listened to make sure it wasn’t a trap for me.”

Connor studied the older man for a long moment. Hank stared back, his bright blue eyes inscrutable in the twilight. Connor sheathed his now-clean sword and laid it against his pack, in easy reach. 

“My name is Connor,” he said, holding out a hand to grasp Hank’s, 

He met the gesture with mild amusement, “well met, Connor. Eventually. Got anything to eat?”

Connor did; hard cheese, and bread that hadn’t gone too stale yet. After they moved the dead bodies away from their camp for the wolves and carrion birds (and searched their pockets for a few loose coins) Hank produced a reasonably fresh rabbit that he’d shot earlier in the day as well as some crisp apples. The only thing he didn’t offer to share with Connor was the sour wine he nursed through the evening, but Connor didn’t feel compelled to press the issue. 

The practical meal-talk quickly took a turn to the personal, “so what brings a young Maester like you to camp by the side of the road all alone in the middle of nowhere?” Hank asked, leaning back to use his saddlebags as a pillow, big hands resting behind his head. Connor noted that he looked perfectly at home in the wild; this man was used to hard living.

Connor chewed a bite of rabbit, looking into the fire while trying to decide how much to tell his new companion. 

“I’m looking for my brother,” Connor eventually decided. 

Hank raised an eyebrow, “I thought you lot gave up family and such when you forged your chains? Wait, is he your real brother or do you call other Maesters your brothers too, like the Septons?”

“Yes. Well. No,” Connor sputtered, “I mean, Nines is my brother by blood, but he’s also a Maester.”

“Your family sent two sons to the Citadel?” 

“Three. We’re orphans. The three of us - we have another brother as well, but he’s...gone now - we were sent to the Citadel by our foster mother when we came of age.”

Hank grunted at this, “three orphans get a foster mother and then chained? That’s what I call luck.“

Connor only barked out a dark laugh at this, “luck. Sure. Well, my youngest brother was assigned to be the new Maester for the Manderlys of White Harbor, a prestigious honor for a boy who came to the Citadel with no surname, no matter how much the Archmaesters like to pretend such things don’t matter. But he didn’t make it there.”

“White Harbor, eh?” Hank sat up, “That’s where I was born and raised. How long has he been missing?”

“Nines- Rickard, I mean - left Old Town by ship thirteen months ago. He sent a raven from King’s Landing after presenting himself to the Grand Maester with deliveries from the Citadel. The voyage had been going well, and they were due to make landfall at Saltpans, then on to White Harbor itself. That letter from King’s Landing was the last I heard from him.”

“What of the ship that carried him? Any word on it?”

Connor shook his head, “There’s no way of knowing if it made Saltpans, but that’s where I’m headed.”

“Were they trustworthy?” 

Connor shrugged, “I didn’t make the travel arrangements, but I accompanied my brother to the docks to see him off. It was a merchant vessel out of Lannisport, nothing noteworthy. The Citadel has used that crew before, and never seemed to have an issue. And if they’d wanted to rob him, the time to do it would’ve been before they reached King’s Landing; the books and materials Rickard carried for the Grand Maester were worth a small fortune, but afterwards he’d only have had small personal effects and medicinal supplies.”

“And they were supposed to skirt the coast? No landfall in the Stepstones or Braavos?” Connor knew what Hank was thinking.

“Pirates were my first thought as well,” Connor said, “though it’s not impossible, there haven’t been any rumors of reavers so close to shore. Before leaving Old Town I spoke with a Summer Islander captain who sailed the same route at about the same time and had a smooth voyage.”

“Still,” Hank said grimly, “it’s not impossible, like you said. Or a freak squall out of nowhere. We’re getting close to summer’s end, such things have been known to happen.” 

Connor nodded. There was a moment where the crackle of flames and simple woodland noises filled the silence, then Connor ventured his own question, “and you, Ser? Where are you off to?”

Hank gave a mirthless smile, “and how’d you know I was a “ser,” Maester?”

“I might have spent most of my life surrounded by scholars, but I know a knight when I see one. Besides, that highwayman said you were at Redgrass.”

Hank’s face was inscrutable again, and he took another gulp of his wine before speaking, “I’m going to Riverrun. From there, I can’t say.”

“Are you a hedge knight, then?” Connor was aware he was skirting dangerous territory with this man he knew little about.

“I suppose you could call me that,” Hank’s voice was measured, even, but there was a hint of danger to it that made a shiver run up Connor's spine.

Connor paused, his mind considering the little bag of coins he had squirreled away in his pack, “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to accompany me as far as Riverrun, if not farther? You’d be compensated.”

Another grunt, and another swig of wine, and then Hank studied Connor in a way that made Connor shiver. His eyes were big and blue, stunning even in the low light. 

“You’ve traveled all the way from Oldtown alone?” Hank asked. 

“Well, yes.”

“Was this the first time you’d been accosted on the road?”

Connor couldn’t help but bristle slightly at that, “I’ve been careful -”

“You’ve been stupid,” another swig of wine, “all right then,” Hank shrugged, as though doing so meant nothing to him, “Riverrun it is. We’ll leave at first light.”


End file.
